One For The Road
by Double Calibur
Summary: Bounty hunting isn't for the faint of heart. An isolated tale of justice served cold. OC Centric. Rated T for swearing and moderate violence/blood.


Sand Hill was known for it's abysmal heat. The scorching, arid sands a hallmark of it's deadly beauty. It was a sight to behold, especially during sunset, but only when one wasn't stranded out in the dunes, on the edge of insanity and hungry for dirt. This dry heat baked you alive in all of the worst ways if mother nature wasn't nursing you with a cool breeze to beat it back into it's pen.

Air conditioning was a luxury. Fans were sold at a surplus, circulating dusty haze in an attempt to keep sane. Choking on your own tongue when there wasn't any water for miles was considered a natural way to go around here. Watering holes were treated as sanctuaries for the wary. An invisible codex to be followed meant you had to abide by common public law. Lawmen didn't make the rules.

Five-odd miles in either direction on Route 53rd, about midway between a butte and ancient, sand torn ruins was one such water hole by the name of the Shortstick Saloon. it was home away from home. Good drinks and a neat little pump to refill your vehicle for the patrons of the county when their settlements in the dunes proper needed a place to get away from their significant other.

It wasn't an inconsiderable trek, but to them, it was always worth it. Trouble brewed around Sand Hil on the regular. Many a criminal needed to lay low from the law for one reason or another, or if an opportune bounty hunter saw fit to collect on someone that week because they pissed off the town commissioner, it was easy to hide amongst the throng of people inside a roadhouse reserved for the tough. They looked after their own, even if they initially weren't one of them, it became an ad-hoc flock.

Today, in the wee hours of the morning, nature was being somewhat merciful. Clouds hung over Route 53. The breeze had picked up, and the fans had been swept free of dust yesternight. Everything seemed right with the world. So far, for one felon on the run, it seemed to be.

For Gregory Holstein, being on the run felt great. Even if he had botched a bank job in Shady Sands a week ago, resulting in the death of three people and the theft of fifty-thousand clams, he felt rather satisfied with himself. Always fancying himself a criminal, even from a young age, he had attempted to make a name on the criminal circuits for some time, only just recently getting into the big time. That bank job had been messy, but it was enough to get his name in the papers and on the media. That was good enough for him.

The human had heard of Shortstick from a fellow colleague. Having been considered neutral ground for the most part, he felt it perfect to lay low and spend his hard-earned cash. Some of the mobian girls milling about were quite the eye-candy, too. He could sit back and ride out the manhunt no doubt sweeping the nearby towns for him. They wouldn't find him.

Shortstick's front door gently swung open, briefly lighting up the inside of the roadhouse. Inside the frame illuminated by the outside, stood a mobian no taller than four feet. One hand rested on the push handle. Unfortunately for Gregory, he couldn't see much beyond the fellows outline, having been sitting at a table that left him perpendicular to the entrance, casting a bright light into his eyes. That was his own fault, no need to make a scene for something he didn't do. Best just turn his head next time someone entered.

The newcomer, however, took his sweet time moving from the entrance, to inside proper. The rustic feel of the roadhouse was inviting, if a bit run down from lack of perfect maintenance. It was perhaps a testament to it's own strength for staying upright for so long. No one could blame him for taking in the scenery, with walls lined of memrobilia and photo's. It was a typical roadhogs vacation home.

With the door coasting closed behind him, the inside lights cast themselves over the new arrival. There stood a four foot tall mobian, colored a dusty yellow, with long triangle ears. Fixated to his shoulders was a dusty leather jacket, missing one sleeve on the left side, having apparently seen the end of the world andback thrice over from the way one could see small tears, along with the sun-bleached and hardened leather marring it's otherwise immaculate surface. It hung open to his waist. The only other notable feature about his attire were the brown, laced up boots, and the beige-white sleeve hanging out of the torn arm of the jacket, with what appeared to be a black band fixated around the bicep.

His face was a different story. Creases within his eyebrows seemed to stay fixated and etched, furrowed permanently. Stark, sky blue eyes complimented a dark-brown muzzle, as those pointed eyes scanned the small crowd of people talking, eating, drinking, or chilling out.

A pair of dogtags hanging from his neck gently clinked above the din as this new person made his way to the bar proper, boots giving a nearly silent, distant thud with every step that he took. None of his steps were heavy, yet they were calculated and calm. Almost driven, even, in their single minded purpose as the owner of said feet arrived at the bar, placing both hands on the brown mahogany and laminated countertop.

Behind the bar, stood a tired, red and gold scorpion, with eyes that spoke of a thousand yard stare reserved for his enemies in the distant past. Upon spotting the dusty yellow newcomer, they seemed to snap back into reality, where they took on a resignated, almost dreary outlook, having played this song and dance plenty of times.

"Hello, Lurch." Came the scorpion bartenders voice, already tired and barely able to put up with the events that followed.

"I know he's here." Came the raspy, dry cadence of the yellow mobian. Sky-blue eyes looked directly into the scorpions, drilling deep. The scorpion sighed again, bringing a hand to his forehead, pressing into the chitinous shell covering his softer bits. He'd have to mix together an aspirin cocktail of some sort just to relieve the mounting blood pressure in his skull.  
"You know I can't tell you anything without a bounty notice."

The yellow mobian, whose name appeared to be Lurch, set his lips into a thin line, bridge of his nose crinkling, as if he'd just gotten whiff of a particularly bad smell. With one hand up, the other slowly reached into his jacket's inner pocket. The scorpion watched his hand intently, his own hands slowly gravitating toward the shotgun underneath the bar.

Luch pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper, which otherwise looked new and crisp, from how white the stock used to print the details on it still were. Throwing it onto the counter, the scorpion bartender reached out with both hands, unfolding the wrinkled mess to reveal the contents within.

Gregory Holstein  
Male/Human/Aged 31  
Wanted Dead or Alive for: Armed Robbery, First Degree Murder, Grand Theft, Evasion  
20,000 dollars  
Considered to be Armed and Dangerous

Sure enough, there, smack dab in the middle of the paper, was Gregory's tanned, sandy-haired face, looking as souless as the day he was born, a glossy eyed magnet for terror.  
The bartender gazed at the list of crimes with dread. He knew that human at the table had done something, but he hadn't figured he was the culprit behind the Shady Sands bank heist a week ago. It was all over the news, and Lurch, ever the opportunist, saw it as a chance to exercise himself.

The scorpion looked at Lurch once more, before looking over his shoulder at the human sitting at the table. Lurch, having paid close attention to where the bartenders eyes roamed, followed them, spotting Gregory sitting at his table, nursing a malt-liquor mixed with lemonade, unaware of just who was watching him intently.

Slowly, a crooked smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

When he turned back, there was no smile, just the same thin line of resolution he reserved for all of his targets.

Wordlessly, Lurched reached into his jacket again, procuring a metal cased wallet about the size of his fist. Clicking it open, his calloused thumbs worked through the various bills, procuring five twenty-dollar bills and one one-hundred dollar bill.

"Double-barrel behind the counter."

The bartender gave him a long, incredulous look.  
"It's not for sale."

"I'm renting it."

The bartender turned his head a bit, eyes briefly drifting over to Gregory and then back to the irasicible mutt before him. It was his turn to set his mouth into a crease, letting out a huff of air through his nose. Reaching under the bar, inside a small shelf reserved for the TOZ-63 Sawn-off shotgun he kept there along with a box of home defense shells, he reluctantly brought up the defense weapon into view, fingers gripping the wood stock tightly.

Before he set it down, the break-action was cracked open, shaking the weapon and dumping the two shells already loaded onto the counter, before replacing the action at it's original position and placing it next to them, steadying himself on the counter as he began to shake ever so slightly.

Lurch took one shell, pinching it between his index and thumb digits, while also lifting the shotgun in front of him. Breaking open the hinge's, he deposited a shell into the right barrel, flipping it back into position, swiping the hammer back.

"Please don't go for the head." The scorpion pleaded in a tired, despondent voice.

"I would only get a quarter of the reward if I did." He stated matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

With shotgun hanging by his side, finger firmly pressed into the wood frame of the sawn-off rifle, the dusty yellow coyote made a slow beeline toward Gregory's seat on the floor of the saloon. His footsteps grew ghostly silent as he lifted the weapon behind the small of his back, angled just enough to where you couldn't see it proper.

Stopping at Gregory's table, the human in question looked up at the coyote just over his glass of malt, raising an eyebrow as he slammed the mug down onto the surface in a show of intimidation. Lurch didn't budge one inch. This staunch refusal to cower back irritated the human, causing him to spit down in defiance.

"Whaddya want, mutt?"

That crooked little smile came back, only this time, his lips parted, showing off a toothy grin full of pointed fangs.

"There's a bounty on your head that I aim to collect."

Gregory only had time to register the word "bounty", right as Lurch raised the shotgun to his side. Reaching out to the humans shoulder was easy enough, since he'd been sitting down at the time, completely unprepared to be brought forward gut first into the awaiting barrel of a menacing looking sawn-off shotgun.

The roar of the weapon's blast rang out in the saloon as the human took the full brunt of that vicious gutshot, getting sent flying back in his chair, directly onto the floor in a crumpled heap, blood spurting from the newly made hole in his sternum. Point blank like that, the buckshot had torn through his cheap jacket and shirt, settling deep in the skin. Had the ammo used been any more powerful, it would have punched right through him to the other side.

As it was, most of his torso was shredded, with Gregory clutching the wound in a desperate attempt to stifle the flow, blood flowing from his mouth.  
"Fu-f-ffucckgh you-"

It was Lurch's turn to sigh as he watched the human struggle and gurgle.  
"Have some decency."  
Quietly stepping over to the human's head, the apathetic coyote narrowed his eyes at the supine human, mouth curled into a snarl as his boot came down on the human's neck, swiftly breaking it in one stomp.

Lifting a leg to rest it on his thigh in a surprsing display of agility, Lurch groaned out loud, whispering to himself as he saw the blood coating the soles.

"Now my boot's all sticky."

When the scorpion finally remembered to breathe, he slapped the top of the counter to get the coyote's attention, pointing at him, and then at the door. You couldn't tell his finger was shaking at the distance he was at, so it at least held the same effect.

Lurch stole a brief glance around him as the din of the saloon had all but died down the moment the shotgun had gone off. He just hadn't noticed all of the eyes fixated squarely on him in a display of abject fear and terror until now. Some had taken to flattening themselves against the wall furthest from his spot, as if that'd help them somehow.

Walking back to the bar with shotgun in hand, Lurch placed it back in it's original position next to the lone shell from before, nodding at the scorpion and muttering a thanks. Hanging his head low, the scorpion let go of shaky, inaudible breath.  
"Will you take him and go? I've got a mess to clean up."

Nodding his head, Lurch walked back to the human on the floor, as he reached down to grab the limp hand of the human, lifting him up, the coyote dragged the corpse from it's spot on the floor to the front door, leaving a bit of a trail behind. Anyone that was in his way before, parted to make a clear, wide path, 'less they somehow incur the wrath of the tyrant before them.

As Lurch left the Shortstick Saloon, closing the door behind him, he dragged Gregory's body to the parking lot, shaking his head and chuckling. He didn't know what they were afraid about.

It was just business. 


End file.
